December 3, 2019
by VR Trakowski
Summary: Warrick visits Nick for Christmas.


**Happy December! I'm attempting the 31 Days of Ficmas prompts, which are apparently open to any fandom.**

**I do reserve the right to quit at any time. :P**

**This is a post-fic for _Grave Danger_. The prompt is "cider".**

* * *

"Apples. Seriously."

Warrick gave the fruit he was holding a skeptical look, then bit into it. The mouthful was just as good as the ruddy exterior promised; crisp, juicy, and sweet. His brows shot up.

"Yep." Nick grinned at him. "Aunt Josey has a few hundred trees up Bertram way. Most of 'em go to the farmer's market, but she saves a few for family."

Warrick swallowed his bite. "I didn't know you could grow apples in Texas."

"Most people don't. You think that's good, you should taste Mom's cider."

Warrick took another bite. "Okay, this I gotta see," he said, indistinctly.

"C'mon then." Nick tossed Warrick his jacket and led him outside.

The rambling house sat on a fair bit of land, about what Warrick had expected when he'd come down with Nick to stay over Christmas. The Stokes family was warmly welcoming, but Warrick could sense the extra edge of worry even if no one came out and said anything; the almost-faded scars on Nick's hands and face were constant reminders of just how fragile life could be.

Warrick kept his mouth shut on the topic. Nick had to be pretty fed up with the solicitousness by now; if Warrick could distract people a bit it was the least he could do.

_He has my back, I have his._ Turnabout was fair play, after all.

The December afternoon was chilly but not what Warrick would call cold, though he did know that other parts of Texas got plenty cold enough for snow in the winter; still, he was glad for the jacket as they made their way to one of the three or four outbuildings near the house. They looked like they were left over from when the surrounding suburb was a farm, but the one Nick walked into was ruthlessly clean on the inside, and Warrick could smell the apples piled in the baskets near the door.

"Rejects," Nick said, waving at them. "Too banged up to sell, and Aunt Josey can't be bothered to make cider, but Mom loves it. She can usually squeeze enough to last her 'til next fall."

The small building was dominated by something that looked like a pepper grinder on steroids. "That's the press?"

"How'd you guess?" Nick elbowed him, and Warrick shoved back genially.

"I'm an investigator, jackass. How's it work?"

Nick shrugged. "Put the apples inside and push the lid down. Well, crush 'em first, but the crusher's busted and Mom hasn't got it fixed yet. It's pretty simple."

"And that's the result." Warrick strolled to the back wall for a closer look at the shelf lined with glass jars, some of which held cloudy amber liquid.

"Yeah, it's basically canned so it'll keep. The best stuff is back at the house, though - she's started making hard cider, and that stuff has a decent kick."

"I'm gonna need to see evidence of that," Warrick said smoothly, and Nick snickered.

"We can do that. The leftover stuff gets composted or just thrown out, and that's pretty much all there is to it."

"Cool." Warrick filed the information away, just in case. Hanging around Grissom had taught him that the craziest bits of trivia could come in handy when you least expected it.

Though he sometimes suspected that was an _effect_ of hanging around Grissom, more than anything else.

Late that night, after the carol singing - which Warrick was _not_ expecting - Nick pulled him aside, out of the crowded house and into the now-cold night. "I need some space," he muttered so only Warrick could hear, and Warrick nodded and followed him across the still-green lawn to a couple of battered plastic lounge chairs.

They leaned back with mutual sighs, and Warrick's gaze was caught by the stars overhead. It wasn't the glittering glory of a desert night, but they were far enough from city lights to see a good spread, and he spent a few minutes picking out constellations to give Nick time to relax.

After a while he heard fabric shifting, and then a sort of clinking pop. "As ordered," Nick said. "The good stuff."

Warrick pulled his attention back to earth. Nick was holding out a fat bottle that smelled like apples and booze, and Warrick took a careful sip.

The flavor exploded in his mouth like the apple's had earlier, sweet and fizzy and packing, indeed, a potent kick. He swallowed and exhaled, feeling the alcohol hit his stomach with a warming pulse. "Okay, yeah, that's pretty decent stuff."

"Damn straight. Pass it back."

Warrick obeyed and heard Nick's deep gulp. He said nothing; neither of them had to drive anywhere tonight or work tomorrow. If Nick wanted to get plastered on homemade booze that was his business.

But Nick handed back the bottle, and they traded sips for a while in silence. Warrick was cold, but not enough to care, and the cider was fighting that anyway; and it was peaceful out in the dark, with the occasional growl of a car going past or a muffled, happy shout from the house.

Not the kind of Christmas he knew, without all the brilliant lights of the Strip and the constant pass of people; but it was good, and he was glad Nick had asked him to come down, and not just because Nick needed a buffer.

More than half the bottle was gone, and Warrick's head was getting a little floaty, before Nick spoke again.

"Did I ever say thank you?"

Warrick blinked at the stars, trying to corral his thoughts. "For what?"

Nick snorted, and it finally dawned on Warrick what he was talking about. "Oh. Don't be stupid, man."

"Yeah, but - I mean - " Nick seemed to be getting tangled in his own words, and Warrick realized the bottle was still in his own hand. He took one more taste and gave it back.

"Look," he said, trying to form the thought around the cider. "You've always been there for me. I was just returning the favor. Dammit, Nick, don't make me say it!"

Nick spluttered a laugh, and that made Warrick start snickering, and then they were helpless in the grip of it, making undignified noises that neither of them would admit to while sober.

When they were reduced to hiccups, Warrick glanced over at his best friend, barely visible in the dark. Nick was staring at the sky, and moved by impulse, Warrick wobbled to his feet.

In the light, without the cider, he would have settled for a punch on the arm. In the dark, breathing in cold air and breathing out the taste of apples, keeping up appearances didn't matter. Warrick shoved his lounge chair over next to Nick's, then collapsed back onto it and leaned over to wrap an arm around Nick's shoulders.

Nick's sigh was, Warrick thought, half tears and half resignation. His head bumped against Warrick's ear, his bulk was warm along Warrick's side; he squirmed until he could work his arm behind Warrick's back. It was less than comfortable and definitely awkward, but at the same time it was - just right.

Warrick pulled him a bit closer and watched the stars pass by overhead, and thanked heaven that he still had his best friend.


End file.
